This was likely my favorite of the year, and I’ve read some great ones. It reminds to withhold those 5 star ratings as a general strategy, so they are available for books like this. When I find great fiction like this, it makes me wonder why I struggle through “difficult” books at times – great writing can be a delight, and maybe the greatest writers understand that and have a special skill to tell a tale in a way that is informative, historical, educational, insightful and just plain entertaining. This author doesn’t produce much in the way of novels, perhaps spending his time researching, reading, writing, re-writing and re-writing. That is speculation on my part. I’ve read 3 of his 4 novels now, and each one I have dearly loved. I’ll wait for his later to come out in paperback, and be ready in 2-3 years (the current one has been on m shelf for over a decade). 2018 for me is the year of reading great novels about Native Americans, told by white people who became integrated by odd histories. The settlement of Appalachia by Scotsmen and the Irish, and the mixing of their Gaelic bloodlines with Native Americans, and oddities such as bringing in hogs which, purposely allowed to go feral, then upset the ecosystem, is just fascinating history brought into this tale. The ancient woman of the tribe even recalls the Spanish invaders of a century or more before, which their shiny helmets.
Having no personal relationship with the author, I travel a bit through where he was born, raised and lives in southern Appalachia, in Asheville, NC. This is one of the most stunningly beautiful spots on earth, yet the mountains are treacherous and full of mystery. Cormac McCarthy, my current number one, has early novels set here. The story is only very roughly based on the historical figure William Holland, and Frazier owns up to that clearly in the epilogue. An interesting facet is the title, which the author does not explicitly explain, which I learned is based on the Cherokee device of tracking years by the 13 lunar cycles – being a scientist and (woefully) ignorant of this fact of nature – I was thrilled wtiht coincidence that an ordinary box turtle has a pattern on its back showing 13 sections, surrounded by a perimeter of 28 small ones. The beauty of this, 13 moons and 28 days each, serves as a way to keep a calendar. I love that and it gives me interesting ideas for art projects and paintings of my own.
The lead character, Will, is just delightful. He tells his story with depth, longing and passion as an old man, sorting through his regrets, losses, delights and cherished solitude. It is a story of un-requited love, though he transiently claimed the body of his beloved, he never got her soul and it haunted him to his dying days. This ache persisted and was the burr in his saddle that kept him moving, seeking, and exploring the limits of his abilities. As a protagonist, Will is traditional in that the story is told exclusively from his perspective. But Frazier shows remarkable skill in creating such massive depth in a person, that there is no exhausting of the man, he is a bit of a genius and renaissance frontiersman who just can’t escape his Cherokee roots. Will is a white man, but schooled himself with his Native American hero, Bear, and from time to time departed his trading post to immerse himself in Cherokee culture. He found a father figure in Bear, later becoming his translator and protector, ultimately assuming the mantle of chief (the historical figure Will Holland was apparently one of the only white chiefs known to history). This is a story of great characters, as Will encounters his nemesis the equally interesting, erudite and violent older Featherstone. This man is part Cherokee, but through craft and ingenuity has transformed himself into a mostly white plantation owner, amassing wealth through all sorts of nefarious and legitimate means. Much is made of horses, as one would expect in the pre-civil war period, and personal vendettas are played out over the treatment of Will’s beloved Waverly stead.
Whenever I fancy writing a book of my own, less and less these days, I know I will get stuck on the fact that I will not likely achieve the greatness of a tale such as this. I felt the same way listening to Charlie Parker in my youth, realizing that I could practice my saxophone every waking hour and never even nimble at the edges of that talent. Great literature is obvious when you see it, I and in my older years now I just stand in awe at it, and feel gratitude, that someone used their time, energy and talent to make it happen. It must be a beautifully clean feeling to finish a work of this magnitude and create something that will persist through the ages (whether it does or not is not the fault of the author, as we know, but luck). But reading this book, I think the author is wise and knows that and must feel very proud to have made something that brings joy to so many serious reads (if I may be so conceited). This book evinces Matthiesson’s Shadow Country, which I also elevate on my small, narrow shelf of favorites, it its use of the historical Edgar Watson.
I could find some minor flaw in the book, but what’s the point? It filled me with happiness and I didn’t want it to end. But I know it must, and that is part of it’s’ allure. The story is about the ebb and flows of time, the spectacular beauty of a place that is disappearing. It is “about” the Trail of Tears Indian removal project, but it does not preach. The main character is not idolized, made heroic, but is self deprecating and, frankly, downright hilarious in his sardonic worldview. His adventures and misadventures are infused with whimsy and camaraderie with eclectic soul mates. I learned more history of the ways of a time and place than I would ever put myself through in history books. Like other great novels, however, this one leads me to read other sources to followup on what is truly known. How people lived before the industrial age, kept alive, warm, fed, entertained, and culturally interested is laid out in fine detail. A book that makes me change what I actually do and practice in my life is a real one – I’m onto understanding and observing lunar cycles. That’s great literature for me.
Here are a few samples:
(p. 141) After lovemaking in the mountains with his beloved in blissful youth: “Decades later in life, deep into aching middle age, I held deeds to most of the land I then saw, all the way to the longest horizon, stacks of papers saying all that summer country was mine. But of course, all the paper in tehw orld was nothing in comparison to those three days.”
(p. 219) His great regret, that keeps surfacing through his long life: “That moment has haunted me all my life. Her sitting on the tailboard of the wagon, going away, the driver rattling the reins and the mules pulling and the wooden members of the wagon rubbing and rattling against one another as the wheels rolled through the mud. Claire bending her head and her hair falling over her face like drawing curtains across a bright window. And me saying nothing. Doing nothing. I was a young man, but I believed my best life was over.”
(p. 292) The beginnings of one of the first towns in the wilds of Appalachia, just outside the Indian Territories on a blank place on the maps of the time: “…a school and a church wouldn’t hurt, in regard to our relations with the outer world. The latter two whitewashed buildings were identical, except that the church was capped with a little gesture of steeple at the door end of its gable. Of course, I immediately hired a teacher and a preacher, nearly indistinguishable young men from Baltimore with no better prospects in life other than come to what must have seemed the ass end of creation for a rate of pay that amounted to little above room and board, and forced them to live together in a one-pen log cabin so small they shared a rope-and-tick bedstead. The two were so much of a size they could share each other’s clothes, three black suits identifiable only by degree of fade to grey.”
(p. 296) This must be Lacrosse, but cleverly not named such as the author keeps his story entirely authentic for the time and displays humor: “There were no limitations on violence other than that it was frowned upon- but not forbidden- to scratch like a woman. And bringing a ballcarrier down by dragging at the breechcloth was supposed to be outside the pale, but when it was done and resulted in a man revealed in all his deficiency, great hilarity ensued both in the crowd and among the players.”
(p. 313) This kind of humor is right out of my own playbook: “…carrying a wailing baby bundled in little white blankets. All you could see was the face like a bar owl’s, just as round and flat and pale and fierce. Like all babies. If they had the physical means, they’d kill you without conscience to fulfill their slightest immediate desire. Same as house cats, which if they weighed two hundred pounds would not accede to our existence for a single day.”
(p. 320) the seasons and weather and nature factor into the lunar cycles throughout: “Therefore, autumn was now Bear’s favorite season by far, replacing early summer in his affections. He ached with newfound pleasure all through autumn’s many stages, the slow day-by-day coloring of fragile dogwood and sumac and redbud in late summer, then maple and poplar, then the sudden netherward jolt of the first frost and the overnight withering of the weeds, and finally the heroic fortitude of oak, its most persistent dead leaves gripping the branches all through the bitterest winter until finally cast to earth by the push of new growth in spring. And above all, the waxing and waning of the several moons- End of Fruit, Nut, Harvest, Hunting – commanded Bear’s deepest interest. The different ways they rise and fall in the sky and change from one to the next, from milky and enormous in late summer to tiny as a fingertip and etched hard as burning phosphorus against the wee starts in cold early winter.”